


Go to Hel(l)

by extrasystem



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Marvel Norse Lore, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Sassy Thor, Smut, Swearing, a CRACK fic if i've ever written one, bucky with nail polish, inspirations from God of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extrasystem/pseuds/extrasystem
Summary: It’s a friendly proposition from your father — visit Midgard and leave the frozen hills in the Underworld. And, truly, the place your brother calls New York is home to more felons than Helheim, but it’s also the place you find yourself falling in a bed of poppies.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Loki (Marvel) & Reader, READER IS THOR AND LOKI'S SISTER, Thor (Marvel) & Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	Go to Hel(l)

**Author's Note:**

> SO. If you couldn't tell from the tags, it is a hel!reader x bucky fic and is VERY important to note that the reader is NOT Hela and, although I am roughly following MCU's interpretation of Norse mythology, I am following actual Norse lore with a slight twist 'cause Hel is not Loki's child. ALSO, I have decided to interpret Helheim as another realm, though within the confines of Niflheim. PLEASe do not clock me for fucking up Norse lore (i was reading about it for so long imsosorry). This is also a CRACk fic if anything so, bear with me. 
> 
> This was written for venusbarnes' 5k challenge with prompt #15 ("You look good like this. In the sun.") and brooklyn-boy's floriography writing challenge with prompt #8 (poppy: sleep, peace, death, wartime remembrance), both who are on Tumblr.

"Are you normally this… sad looking?"

You narrow your eyes, sharply turning to face your antagonizer. Thor, God of Thunder and heir to the Asgardian throne, smirks tauntingly. He strides closer, crossing his muscled arms and allowing his nauseating cape dance to in the breeze. The warrior towers over you easily and casts a familiar shadow over your body in a way that has occurred since you were a babe. 

If you’re both feeling particularly sentimental, you find yourself referring to him as your brother. And, him to you, his younger sister. 

The flowers that you had been admiring in a flood of vines and leaves behind the fortress crumple to the ground. You smile sarcastically, saying, "Yes. Almost as sad as the children in Niflheim when you decided to spark a war with the Frost Giants."

His cocky smile falls, gritting his teeth. 

"You know, it really is a shame that I’m the only one in the family who has a decent sense of humour," Thor counters as you stand from your crouched position to mimic his stance. "Now, are you done? I’d prefer to finish this trip as quickly as possible."

Suddenly, your irritation dissolves like the heavy, yellow pollen that passes between the two of you. A strange sensation bubbles in the lower pits of your stomach and underneath silver-plated armour; Ganglati, your faithful servant, had named the feeling 'excitement'. 

In all fairness, the prospect of leaving the icy terrain of Helheim and to the chaotic world of Midgard had your sleepy eyes shot awake when Odin proposed the idea. It had been an unimaginable amount of time since you had visited last, long before you were crowned the sole ruler of the Underworld. However, you weren’t expecting a thick-headed blonde to be your tour guide. 

Honestly, you should have figured he would have tagged along with his admittedly odd affection for earth. Not to mention, the opportunity to please your father by bravely guiding his baby sister through the trenches of Midgard was too tempting to pass on. As if each of the King of Asgard’s children wouldn’t have been trained to fight for their honour since they could patter around the marble hallways of their palace. 

You roll your eyes dramatically. 

"No, I’m not. Give me a moment, would you?" You remark, swiftly turning on your bare heel without acknowledging an answer. The vibrant garden ahead of you flourishes in gold light, adjacent to the cobblestone path that curls around various flowerbeds, courtesy of Frigga. The witch had carefully crafted a remarkable maze of greenery and dotted them with coloured florets. 

The cool stone under your toes sends a welcomed shiver up your calves with each step you take past a bronze fountain engraved with the princes’ names. Behind the gaudy structure is a bed of a herbaceous plant in an array of tints that range from deep indigo to bright ivory. Expectantly, the poppies stray from the stretch of your hand and turn into wisps, bar the white flowers which stand still on their jagged stems. 

The small coal in your throat is easily swallowed when your nimble fingers pluck each pale blossom into your chilly palm. You’re quick with your movements in an attempt to halt a complaint from the groundskeeper regarding the death you have inflicted on their prized flora. Each pull stings the tips of your fingers until you’re satisfied with the handful of flowers you’re left with. 

Then, you twist around and back to your brother who has taken it upon himself to admire the own florets in his calloused hands — a sunflower. Typical. His shoulder-length hair quivers in the draft and a song from the mouth of a bijou creature begins to flood the sweet air in Asgard. Thor’s thumb brushes over a yellowed petal that glimmers a soft blue, a reminder of the magic that keeps the garden from death. 

Other than you, of course.

Your padded shoulder nudges his arm gently, standing next to him to admire the beauty of life, a spectacle you do not normally witness. A muted scoff escapes his mouth while he picks each poppy from your hand and carefully weaves the long, green stems into a braided ornament. The melody from before repeats over and over again until the creatures move on to a different song and Thor finishes his creation. 

He hands you the plaited crown and pockets his sunflower into the front of his belt. 

"Thank you," You mutter. A finger prods at the petals until the God swats your hand away.

"You’ll make it die if you keep that up."

This time, it’s your turn to snort in an unamused fashion. "What a shock that would be."

The tall boy next to you hums, his arms returning into a crossed position. The wind is beginning to pick up and carries the faint smell of embers from a distant flame. 

"Her garden is lovely," You hesitantly speak. The false crown is comfortably settled atop your hair and the quiet thrum of soldiers making their rounds around the castle grounds grow nearer. You should leave soon.

"I will. Or, you could do it yourself, considering she was _your_ mother, as well," Thor utters, rubbing his chin. "It’s not like she’s going anywhere."

He finishes his claim with your name and points to the headstone in the far back, but you interrupt like you always have.

"You know that’s not true, and do not start with how Loki is no different," You embark, exasperated. "I’m the product of her husband’s affair with the one thing he would have died fighting. Why do you think I’ve been cursed, Thor?"

"You’re not _cursed_ ," He argues and pinches the bridge of his nose.

These quarrels always begin like this, with either brother insisting that your life condemned to Hel isn’t the result of Frigga’s wrath toward’s the bastard child Odin brought home. As though she didn’t have to pretend like you belonged to her flesh and blood, not the jötunn who she was convinced tricked her husband into conceiving the personification of sorrow. 

It’s different because you reminded her of the lack of power she had, much less in the confines of her fruitless marriage. 

Each time, these quarrels end with the peel of your skin to reveal the wrinkled, cerulean flesh that taints half your body. It is jarring, if the lack of eye contact and stuttering is anything to go by. Your curse displays the thin skin that allows sharp bones to press harshly against the surface and the sunken epidermis easily contrasts the pleasing image to its right. The image is surely amplified by your rage.

"I don’t expect you or Loki to understand, yet I do hope that you acknowledge the truth as effortlessly as you do when you attempt to throw accusations at me."

The elder sibling flinches subtly while your magic mends faux skin over your permanent scar. He stays silent.

After a moment, you speak. "We should depart. The guards are passing by the gardens soon and I’d prefer to avoid _more_ complaints about my presence."

Thor simply nods.

The flowerbeds around you have faded into dimmer shades of the vibrant hues they used to hold if they are not drained of their life already. The white poppies are the only constant. 

❁ - ❁ - ❁

In the anticipation and eagerness of it all, you had forgotten to ask where you would stay in Midgard. 

Thor, donned in his earthy clothing, flips his shaded glasses onto the top of his braided hair. He gestures dramatically to the entrance of the structure, waving his hand to prompt you inside the steel building with glass doors that reveal a sleek interior. The grass outside of the compound is a striking green that competes with the estates in Alfheim as you step closer to the sliding doors. The azure sky envelopes the two of you and shines brightly through the expansive windows when you step through. 

"Where are we?" You question, rigorously analyzing the muted foyer. To your immediate left are several sliding doors with brightly lit arrows and a digital board that indicate the locations of each area of interest. The floor-to-ceiling windows act as a thin barrier to the outer world and the difference between inside the building is difficult to discern from the warm New York air. The architecture is peculiar, though a welcomed change from the snowy plane you’re accustomed to. 

The blonde follows behind you, lifting a pair of travel bags and pressing the up arrow. It shifts into a pale green.

"The Avengers compound; it belongs to Tony Stark," Thor replies casually and thoughtlessly taps his boot against the tiled floor. 

"Who?" You inquire, the pull between your brows intensifies when you pad around the vicinity to inspect abstract sculptures and textures you’ve never come into contact with previously. Many of your visits to Midgard are faint memories that leave your current state of mind confused and at disarray. "Forgive me, but I haven’t had time to learn of your recent feats throughout the Nine Realms. Managing Niflheim is much more time consuming than you’d predict."

Your millennium-year-old companion chuckles dryly and beckons you into a secondary set of doors. An _'elevator_ ', you learn eagerly once you have removed the metal figure from your chilled fingers. 

"Friends of mine. They are powerful in their own ways."

His thumb, indented from years of battle, gingerly presses a glossy button that has _'6'_ engraved in a pearly white. The doors join again and you roughly grip at the bar behind you when the floor beneath you starts upward. You watch the foyer slowly disappear underneath you through transparent walls and twist around to admire the various surroundings around you. The same board from the entrance area reveals _'6'_ means _'Living Area'_.

You press your fingers to the glass pane beside you and a small layer of frost forms, uttering, "Are they not simple Midgardians? What power could they posses if it is not a currency? Your Stark friend has an abundance."

Thor hums in agreement; he leans next to the doors and rests his head on the wall. The elevator is moving at a quicker rate and the digital screen above the doors switches from _'3'_ to _'4'_. 

"Some of them are gifted with different powers and skills that could rival even some of the Gods back home," The Aesir remarks. "You shouldn’t underestimate them."

A skeptical glare is shot in his direction. "I’m sure."

A soft ding interrupts Thor’s retort.

The steel doors part moreover to expose a dimly lit space filled with luxurious seats and wooden bookshelves; shades of brown, sage and scarlet flatter each piece of furniture and inflict your body with an urge to release the tension in your body with a worn cushion. Polished oak floors are tinted a deep auburn, a smooth surface for your shoes to echo across the room as you exit the elevator.

Once again, you find yourself entrapped with new surroundings and an interior that demands to be investigated. From patterned artwork to a crafty fireplace, there is a collection of items you have never even _imagined_ before. Immediately, a curiosity you haven’t felt in centuries fashions itself around your chest and through your blue veins.

Though, through your zest, you had not expected to be met with the eyes of a brown-haired man and a plate of small pastries held in a metal hand. Your sudden movements into the space are halted when you stare back into a pool of endless cobalt that blinks back at you in haunting silence. He’s tall — a fitted black shirt rests on his torso and baggy pants below refuse to hid his lean figure as his reddened mouth pauses its chewing. 

Fortunately, your brother pierces the uncomfortable silence with ease. The gentle thud of your bags hit the floor. 

"Bucky, it’s been a while," He declares happily, striding closer to his ally. Thor’s bulky arm slides across his shoulders when he’s in proximity and turns to face you. "This is my sister."

_'Bucky’_ nods and swallows lethargically. His pointed eyes shift elsewhere to avoid further contact with yours. 

You wait for him to formally introduce himself like all the people you have met before. It’s customary as the ruler of Niflheim, Goddess of Death, daughter of the Great Odin and sister of Thor and Loki. You don’t miss the sly cough that forces itself out of the Mjölnir wielder. 

A beat passes.

At last, a silky voice escapes his puffy lips and he shrugs off Thor’s arm from around him. "It was nice meeting you, then. Enjoy your visit."

An offended breath rolls from your tongue, watching his body move from behind the couch and down a winding hallway. His movie continues to play absentmindedly on the large screen. 

The Prince merely shrugs, returning to your side and pulls the bags from the ground. His bleached tank top underneath a floral blouse crumples, and the green khakis that rest above his knees are stretched. You recall berating Thor for his clothing choice, yet you find yourself in a similar outfit. Though, the realization that someone other than your brother witnessing the ghastly pieces of fabric causes a hot flush up your neck. That someone being a stranger whose chiselled jaw and reticent eyes leave your aloof demeanour with a racing pulse and heated palms. 

"I guess I should show you where we’ll be resting," Thor contemplates, rubbing at the blonde hair on his chin. Your nose wrinkles at the disturbing similarity between your father and his eldest son. 

Without a second thought, he inadvertently knocks your right shoulder to trace the path down the same hallway Bucky disappeared into. You examine the living space again before hesitantly following the self-proclaimed Protector of Midgard and his jovial footsteps. He leads you along wooden doors and one-way windows, sparsely decorated with various artworks or accolades; the corridor curls around another corner to your left until Thor pauses in front of another door, identical to the other eight you’ve passed.

You impatiently tap your foot as your future King struggles to unlock the entrance. 

"For the love of—" You start, a piercing gaze to Thor’s annoyed profile after his fourth unsuccessful attempt. He hushes your berating; a sharp click of an unlatched door and a triumphant look your way rapidly answers.

The space behind the wall is a vast area that is decorated with a similar colour pattern, bar a grey film that rests on most objects in the room. It’s far from the extravagant chambers you’re accustomed to, but it’s a fair size for a person to live comfortably in. However, the image outside may be your favourite part; there are systemized rows of flowers, crops and other impressive greens. 

If you get close enough to the wide glass, you recognize the same flowers back in Frigga’s garden and others you have never encountered before. The long lines of green and occasional colours are dotted with white, planting itself in fertilized earth. Plus, the rolling waves a distance away in the background is a pleasing complement to the limited garden. Though it may be subpar in comparison to the estates in Asgard, the Midgardian charm you’re foreign to is evident in the way the groundskeepers have left bright rubber boots leaning on a tilted sign, worn of its letters.

"There’s a garden here?"

Thor shoots a quizzical stare at your figure near the window, toying with the poppies that have slowly unravelled from its crown on your head. "I believe so."

You nod absentmindedly and turn around to survey the area. At once, it dawns on you there’s only one bed and two people. It’s worse somehow, registering the other person is the brother you have not seen in years.

"Thor," You begin and watch him unpack his bag, stuffing his possessions into an empty drawer, "there’s only one bed. Are you going to be sleeping on the ground?"

"What?" He laughs, whipping around to confront your crude statement. "Of course not."

"Then where will I sleep?"

Much to your aggravation, he shrugs and points towards the dark couch in the corner. 

"Over there? Or the ground, if you prefer it."

"Are you out of your _mind_?" You wail. 

He shuts the open drawer with his hip and crosses his arms challengingly. You imitate him.

"Look, I was banished to earth to learn some valuable lessons about humility and compassion; I reckon you should do the same, y’know without your weird horn-eyebrow-crown thing."

The God gestures dramatically over his face and the distant feeling of burning embers tints your skin and fuels the fire in your stomach. He can’t be bothered to hide his patronizing smile either, especially when the knuckles in your fists crack. 

The steps you take to close the distance between you two are demanding and heavy on the carpet. Funnily enough, your brother raises his hands in mock surrender and grins down at you. 

He chuckles. "Alright, Lady of the Underworld. I’ll figure something out, just give me a moment to locate Stark."

For the fifth time, you find yourself rolling your eyes and uncrossing your arms, allowing the flowers in your hands to fall to the ground. Thor’s bulky figure slips outside the room and you’re left alone in a dim room and grey slacks. The balmy silk of the sun traces a golden outline across the space, illuminating the sharp edges around your shadow. You’re bathed in a heavy light, a slick contrast to the mountains of ice and windy terrains back home. 

You find your gaze returning outside the glass, following the person in a plastic coat that walks through the maze of greens; they kneel and replace the dark sand with soil from the wheeled barrel next to them. A frosty film blurs the window and mimics the position of your hand against the pane. 

At the edge of your vision, a browned dog races into the field of flowers towards the only person in the area and circles them eagerly. It reminds you of your creature back home — a black hound with yellowed teeth. You imagine the faded crimson on Garmr’s thick coat as he crawls up the steps that lead to your empty throne. 

You miss home and the thousands of lost souls who look at you for guidance. Though, the timid smile that pulls at the edge of your mouth is a welcomed change when you notice the same metal man from before greeting the dog bashfully and continues past the coloured florets. 

❁ _-_ ❁ _-_ ❁

Another door, the same kind that litters the hallway, is swung open dramatically to unveil a room that is identical to Thor’s. Your bag is tossed adjacent to the empty drawer and the view from here looks toward the same grass plane, but the flower beds require you to squint. Additionally, as opposed to your brother standing at the doorway, he’s accompanied by a shorter man in a thick, grey sweater and wrinkled jeans. His name is _'Tony'_ , you believe.

Tony uncrosses his arms to loop his thumbs through the belt loops of his pants. 

"So…" He begins, carefully eyeing the two of you. "What’s on the agenda today?"

In response, you revert your gaze to the blonde expectantly. 

"I thought we’d settle in today and then go out tomorrow," Thor suggests. 

You shrug. "Alright."

Your attention shifts to the rest of the room and you take your time to explore the minimal decorations that litter the space. An awkward cough fills the silence and the shifting of feet can be heard behind you; a murmured conversation begins between the two friends. It doesn’t take a witch to know it’s likely about you.

When you look back at them, Tony’s skeptical gaze has turned into one of wonder. He puts his hands on his hips and a mischievous smile graces his face.

The Avenger proposes, "Why don’t you two join us for dinner? You can meet the others and see a bit more of the compound."

The God of Thunder grins cooly and mimics Tony’s stance, clapping him on the back. "I agree."

Your vision narrows and it seems more likely that you left Asgard with Loki, rather than with its crown prince. 

A minute elapses. 

"… Sure," You respond hesitantly. "When?"

Tony wipes at his jaw, pondering a time. He snaps his fingers.

"Five? 'Gives you an hour or so to get ready."

You nod and he reciprocates, pushing his mouth into a crooked line. The brown-haired man pats Thor on the shoulder and moves to exit the room until he stops at the sound of your voice.

You start. "Between Thor and I, thank you for your hospitality."

The God standing near the doorway hums in agreement, his focus now adjusted towards the brightly lit screen that he clumsily taps at. His thumb is pressing repeatedly to the point where you know it aches. Next to him, with one foot out the door, Tony blinks and seems as though he’s waiting for you to continue. 

You don’t.

He stalks his way into the hallway and out of sight. 

A confused line of thought floods your brain, causing you to shake your head. By the way he carries himself, you would assume he was the Norse God rather than you. 

"Your friends are puzzling," You utter and pace to sit on the stiff bed. The white tennis shoes that don your feet are slipped off and clatter to the ground. 

Thor chuckles, his head knocking against the door frame. The gadget brightens his pale face as his eyes flicker to your slouched body. 

"I’m going back to my room. I’ll be back before dinner," The eldest sibling announces. He swiftly turns to exit, leaving you alone in an unfamiliar room without an inkling of what to do for the next hour. You lie back on the mattress, your arms falling behind you as you flutter your eyes shut and wait for Ganglati and Ganglöt to sort through your items. 

The muted whirl of cool air through the various vents wrap around the room and padded footsteps outside the closed door. Your breath slows to an even melody and the familiar lull of darkness tempts you into subconsciousness. All at once, the sudden awareness of your lack of help and exposure to the sun causes you to blink the fuzziness in your eyes away. 

Your treasured servants are in Hel, not at a steely compound in Midgard. A sigh escapes your lips and you struggle to come to terms with the reality that, despite your status, you must complete these dull tasks yourself. So, with tired eyes and sloppy motions, you unpack the noir bag on the ground; a smoky pull-over and black pants you stole from Thor’s suitcase are laid carefully on the bed for you to change into later. 

In all honesty, you weren’t expecting this place to be as advanced as it is, though you should have known; a world without magic must compensate somehow.

You find yourself pressing another set of buttons when you notice the digital clock in lime, squared font reads _16:43_. Pushing your tongue to the velvet skin in the inside of your cheek, you pad your way to the folded clothing and exchange them for the articles of clothing that hang loosely from your body. A sharp bite of your lip forces you to contemplate the bags that sit on your chest and thighs until a patterned knock raps on the brown wood.

"You can enter," You announce, flattening the fabric against your body in the wall mirror. 

Thor, clad in the same, striking ensemble, strides in without a crooked grin.

"What are you _wearing?_ " 

A frown pushes itself onto your face and you cross your arms in a weak attempt to avoid his judgemental gaze, not that he’s in any position to do so. Your eyes return to the mirror.

"Your old clothes from when you last visited Midgard."

"Gods…" Thor whispers under his breath. You shoot him an icy glare.

"I want to remind you that these clothes aren’t even _mine_ ," You defend with an accusing stare. "I don’t have the luxury of leaving my realm whenever I please."

In return, the blonde rolls his eyes melodramatically and unravels his hands from behind him to exhibit a brightly coloured pile of clothing. "Luckily for you, your brother is incredibly intelligent and gallantly scrapped together some clothing for you."

A silent, condemnatory gaze meets his.

"Fine," He confesses without much restraint. He tosses the clothes onto the bed. "Tony offered."

You bite your tongue from another quick remark and tread your fingers through the coloured threads. A thick, vivid sweater that pictures a cat with cosmic eyes and tight-fitted pants that stretch when you pull at the ends. Your scowl deepens. 

"Were these the only options?"

He smirks and falls onto the mattress with a weighted thud. "Yes." 

You can tell he’s lying from the childish grin on his face that forces a small dip in his chin and a mischievous glint in his eyes that all Odin’s children share. It’s the same way it’s always been, bringing you back to the cruel snake trick of Loki’s, or the strike of lightning that nearly killed Garmr when he was first gifted to you. Messes — all of you.

And, you bark an unfiltered, sardonic laugh that leaves your mouth. The yellow top hangs from your fingertips.

"Are these the type of creatures you face here?" You remark. "You’re always bragging about your conquests on earth and, frankly, I wouldn’t put it past you to kill _this_."

Thor simply hums absent-mindedly and pulls out his phone. "Go change in the bathroom."

Although every bone in your body begs to deny the Prince’s request, you oblige and strip from the loose clothing into the cheap fabric that causes your skin to itch. The dresses and armour you used to complain about seem more appealing than ever. 

Several moments later, you’re trailing Thor though the winding hallways and past the living room, into a wide area where an array of people sit ardently for your arrival. An unorganized chant of ' _hello_ ’s and friendly grunts welcome you.

A stiff smile makes itself onto your face as your brother returns elaborate handshakes and boisterous greetings with his companions. You sit on a wooden chair, adjacent to an older man with dishevelled brown hair and a white lab coat. Everyone else follows after their excited nods at Thor. 

Moreover, Tony’s the first to break the silence, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. He pointed at the food situated in front of you and you take it as an indicator to eat.

"So…" He stretches, ending with your name. Your eyebrows furrow and you assume Thor told him. "Why don’t you share something about yourself?"

You try to hold eye contact with him, but the wavering vegetable at the edge of his utensil challenges otherwise. 

For the first time in a decade, you stumble with your words. When was the last time you had to introduce yourself? You shift in your seat.

"Hello, I come from the Underworld as the only daughter of Odin and ruler of Niflheim and Helheim."

You take the glass, filled with water, with your cold fingers and bring it closer to your lips. The cup is half empty when you’re done and everyone, bar Thor, is sharing blank stares in your direction. A brow of your’s lifts in response.

"What?" You ask, moving to quirk your head at the God across from you in hope of some guidance.

He swallows and shrugs half-heartedly. "I think you left a small detail out — she’s quite bothersome, especially around Loki."

"What’s Niflheim?" A man with a charming slant of his lips and sharp eyes ignores his food in favour of the conversation ahead of them. His name is Sam. On either side is a short-haired blonde in a tight grey shirt and the same man you briefly met when you arrived. Bucky.

Despite yourself, you attempt to find the pair of cerulean eyes anew but are met with a pool of azure around lightly wrinkled skin a seat away. It’s not the person you were searching for, though you return the uncomfortable smile.

"It belongs to the lowest levels of Yggdrasil," You explain. A heavy flood of quiet bewilderment renews. 

"She means the World Tree," The blonde, with a mouthful of food clarifies. The action makes you and a red-headed girl grimace.

A chorus of ' _oh’_ s are followed by sneaky stares that read bafflement, especially by the man next to you who shares a one-sided simper with Tony. 

He turns to you then, introducing himself. Bruce.

"So, if you’re Thor’s sister, does that mean you’re a God?"

"Goddess," You correct, "of Death."

" _Oh,"_ Banner replies, his eyebrows raised and voice lifted. 

Tony’s silver fork enters the corner of your vision; a piece of meat is attached to the end this time and threatens to nod off onto the table. "Huh. Y’know, I feel like I should have expected that."

It’s your turn to be confused.

"Why?"

Your brother interrupts gleefully, saying, "I told them about our _adventures_ when we were younger."

He raises his glass as if there was something to toast to.

You take a minute to ponder the limitless possibilities of stories Thor has unnecessarily shared with the people around the table. 

"Why?" You repeat, an underlying layer of venom in your tone.

The blonde merely shrugs and returns to his food contentedly. From there, a series of questions and explanations are given across the room. You learn their names, though with the number of people that are there, you know remembering them will prove further difficult than you assumed. 

The sun in the horizon lowers until its warm rays brush slightly against your face. Most people have retired to their rooms and you’re left at the extended table answering various inquiries that leave your mouth dry. The only people who join you are Tony, Bruce, Wanda, Thor, and to your shock, Bucky. 

He sits quietly, presumably analyzing your cautious answers and anxious glances across the room. The blue-eyed boy only meets your eyes a handful of times and you spend the time biting a smile behind an aloof demeanour. You don’t miss the burning gaze on the side of your head when Bucky thinks you don’t notice; an unfamiliar prickle crawls up the side of your frozen cheeks as a result.

At last, your exegesis of the Nine Realms and your rulership comes to an end. The plates before you are stacked and moved with the help of Wanda and Bruce, the water pitcher left empty and your throat hoarse. A series of _'goodnight’_ s and promises of introductions to a variety of New York highlights are left on the table as you watch everyone exit, including Bucky.

"Alright, I’ll see you in the morning," The Mjölnir wielder claims, shoving his seat back and escaping into the hallway without another word. You hold your tongue and prefer to roll your eyes back and quietly relieve yourself from the chair. The dining room, after several hours, is silent and you walk to the edge of the room where a wide window allows slivers of moonlight inside. 

To anyone else, the chilly night and lifeless garden would signify an end to the day. Though, the heavy shadows and slight breeze that travels through each plant is a faint whisper in your eager ears. 

There are white poppies — a pearly finish in a sea of greens that represents the silent embrace of peace and remembrance. Or, you. 

Death. 

You find yourself pressing neon buttons and walking past steel doors to be met with a gust of wind, settling into your core as it would back home. A few paces forward, and you’re kneeling next to the pale florets that bring you comfort from the invisible roots that curl around your feet. 

It’s embarrassing, really. The Queen of the Underworld in a cat sweater on your knees for an insentient being. Idun, the meddling Aesir, would surely be cackling at the temporary moment of weakness you exhibit. If it weren’t for her tooth-aching apples, you would have ensured her pathway to Hel already. 

A shake of your head later, your hands brush past the plants that steer away from your magic to collect a handful of untouched poppies. Maybe you’re fond of them because they are the single constant in your life in all realms, or because they’re the only things that don’t die in your care. You decide it’s due to the soft rays that the petals reflect from the moon.

Like before, you attempt to mimic Thor’s crafty hands to fasten a ring of white and sage. And, once again, you remain unsuccessful. It’s eerily akin to the dusks in Asgard when you would escape from your room and rip the alluring flowers from their beds, forcing them into the exposed bones and flesh of the left side of your body.

Those feeble efforts were methods to hide the deep blue scar that tainted you from the bottom of your foot to the top of your head. It was before you learned how to manipulate the little magic you possess for vanity. You began when you entered your second decade and stopped the next.

You breathe a frustrated huff and raise your chin to overlook the garden. Your only companion is the dotted sky and rustled branches. At least, until you narrow your eyes toward a budding oak tree and spot another weary traveller. _He,_ you discern, has his eyes shut and hair freely wavering against wood as he leans back. 

"Hello," You whisper, unsure if you should have kept quiet or not. However, it doesn’t seem like he notices with the distance between you two. It’s probably for the best.

Still, you admire how the finite light cuts his stubbled jaw into a fine edge and the way his sweater clings to his chest in the breeze. The man’s arms are crossed over bent knees and you notice his breathing stills from the lack of movement. 

You return to the flowers in your lap and ignore the dark, weathered greenery around you. 

"Hi."

The way your head snaps in his direction resembles the quickness of Loki’s wit and the realization dawns on you. Bucky, the one with doe eyes and a voice that rivals Bragi’s baritone. 

A sudden burst of curiosity unravels in your torso and you want to skip past the dead leaves to sit on the other side of the tree trunk. But, you don’t. 

Bucky doesn’t speak again and neither do you. It’s a pleasant night under the starlit sky and opaque penumbras. 

❁ - ❁ - ❁

Over the next week, you obtain tacky souvenirs and an exaggerated portrait of you and Thor. You’re both grinning in the drawing so you know that the artist was being dishonest. Other than that, you’ve enjoyed the bits of New York that has been exposed to you, despite your reluctance to vocalize it.

Another thing you refuse to express is your, albeit suppressed, fondness for the man with a metal arm. Since your first night in the row of flowers, you haven’t returned in fear of the potential confrontation between you and Bucky. Although, you’re well aware that he hasn’t either because you’ve watched the gardens from your bedroom window. 

It’s childish and meaningless. Hence, your eventual return.

You acknowledge that racing back to your room in 'I LOVE NYC' t-shirts after dinner and sitting outside the glass window as the sun sets to watch the flowers bloom again is considerably suspicious. The potential sighting of Bucky is an accidental benefit, too.

Yet, the increased rhythm in your chest at the brief image of him walking through the hallways or kitchen and the memory of him bathed in the night is palpable. Seemingly overnight, his presence has left an imprint on your mind. Though, it’s not like you’ve never witnessed a brunette with blue-eyes before; in fact, many of the souls that await for your ruling are eerily similar to Bucky.

And, still, your icy demeanour is thawed under shallow wells of sapphire. 

It’s why you’re sitting outside, legs crossed, on an uncomfortably warm bench with your thigh pressed to Wanda. You had asked her to join you for the evening to avoid the possible encounter with Bucky. It feels more like a lie the further you repeat your mantra. 

The witch turns to face you. "What are you thinking about?"

She’s braiding dark vines and marigolds that mimic the tint of her hair around her left wrist. Although Wanda’s the telepath between you two, you know she was pleasantly startled when you began ravelling pale flowers together. The eve improves significantly when she withholds her comments and joins you instead. 

"Were you born here?" You answer, clarifying when the red-head quirks her brow. "On earth?"

"In Sokovia, yes."

A contemplative hum pushes through your throat and you nod. The gardener in rubber boots nods toward you two as he shrugs off his gloves and enters the compound, the shadows growing darker behind him. The uneasiness in your chest slowly lifts.

You’ve never enjoyed small talk, regardless of the political childhood you have been exposed to as Odin’s child. The difference this time is the solace you see in the girl next to you.

Another question. "What was that like?"

"Difficult," Wanda explains, ignoring the dead organisms that shrivel from your aura. "I was angry for a long time."

"Are you still angry?" You press. If the question was posed to you, you’re not sure you would answer. 

She shakes her head. "No, things have changed for the better."

"How?"

Wanda lifts her eyes from the makeshift bracelet and smiles crookedly. 

"A lot of questions, huh?" She teases.

You shrug. The witch continues, anyway; she lightly describes the major events in her life and, if you were anyone else, you would discover a painful ache in your chest. However, you relate closely to the grief and frustration that has overcome her lifetime. It’s more or less what you spend your time doing with the line of dead souls, kneeling before your throne.

By the time Wanda finishes, dusk settles and layers of flowered bracelets crawl up her arm. The image of her replicates yours, bar the sagging petals. And, you’re a moment away from interrogating her abilities but then you see it.

Or, him, you suppose.

That’s the moment you begin urging Wanda to retire to her chambers with your steely eyes. She’s too perceptive not to notice Bucky tip-toeing around the walls of the building and the glimmer of light in his ponytail. 

You didn’t want this, so why does the blood in your veins burn you from the inside out? 

"Thank you for telling me, Wanda," You utter hurriedly. Bucky no longer exists within your eyesight. "I’m sorry I took up your evening with my questions."

You nod towards the empty sky and the darkness surrounding the area. Rightfully so, she narrows her eyes a millimetre to blink at you. 

"Sure."

The eye contact between you both doesn’t falter for a minute and an expectant look crosses your face. _Leave,_ you want to scream.

"Do you want some time alone?" The scarlet-haired girl ponders, a knowing smirk on her red mouth. 

"Yes."

She chuckles, slightly stunned at your deadpanned response. Though, Wanda should have known better from the way you carry yourself, always expecting your approach to life as opposed to anyone else’s. 

A cursory wave and nod are sent your way while the witch reenters the compound, tossing the flowers to the side. You wait restlessly until she’s no longer visible through the glass, beginning to thoughtlessly pick the petals from their stems. It’s a wonder why everything around you dies, if not for your overwhelming ambience of demise. 

You’re seconds from separating yourself from the bench when the shameful awareness that you would leap at the opportunity to speak to a stranger seeps in. Your stone-cold attitude is knocked in an instant and you have to wonder whether you’re intrigued by Bucky because the pull he has on you, or if you’re clutching at the _idea_ of it.

"Hi."

A deep breath of yours responds, alongside a swift shut of your brooding eyes. You turn around to peer at the blackness before you. "Hello."

It’s as though you’re witnessing a shadow come to life from behind a slender tree. The hair tie tugs Bucky’s hair away from his face, save for the loose strand brushing his brow; a ragged, beige sweater and noir slacks envelop his body and his hands are shoved in its pockets. 

The Avenger stands there awkwardly, rolling on the balls of his feet. He persistently avoids your eyes and he maintains a moderate distance from you. You bite your lip.

"Why are you outside?" You question. 

Bucky shrugs and finally looks at you. He opens his mouth to speak, yet closes it as fast as it opened; a pouted frown graces his face. 

He makes several strides around you, looking at the ground when an unhealthy crunch of dead grass folds under his shoes. An involuntary grimace wracks your body and the ring of demise expands. A relieved sigh forces itself out as Bucky carries on further into the garden.

The flowerbeds and bushes diverge from you immediately while you trace the footsteps ahead of you. He stops at the same tree he leaned on the first night you saw him and you follow, a simple meter or two away. Undoubtedly, it’s tense but your lengthy tenure as the primary witness of death refuses to back down from the imaginary standoff you have created. 

"You never answered my question," You persist. Bucky slides down the trunk down to the bottom and you watch his sweater ride up, a sliver of skin exposed. 

"I just wanted to come outside," He shrugs, moreover. 

You reciprocate and take a seat where you’re standing, with your heels crossed and legs outstretched. The leaves and debris tickle your skin incessantly and you pull the lifeless bits from beneath you.

The dim sky is clear except for the bright spots stippled across the empty canvas and you’re beginning to inquire why you’re admiring the man in beige as opposed to the phenomenon above you. 

Once again, you sit in silence, toying with the shrubs within your reach; clumps of dirt build under your stubby nails. Time passes agonizingly, the birds growing quiet until the crickets in the area overtake the emptiness. 

Your piercing sight returns to the bottom of the trunk and your breath stills momentarily. The deep cobalt imprinted in two places glows vividly in the direction of the forest and puffs of air push past rosy lips if you look close enough. The sleeves of Bucky’s sweater are tugged up to his palms and accentuate the chipped indigo nail polish at the tips of his fingers.

It’s the only time you have witnessed the knotted crease between his brows disappear and stare at something that doesn’t bring him obvious distress. And, it’s true — the soldier isn’t the first person you have met with wide eyes and a timid grin, but he’s the first who can make your chest thud. 

You shake your head, moving to return inside. 

"Where are you going?"

Over your shoulder, Bucky looks at you with an interested expression. 

"It’s late."

He nods and looks at you one last time, turning away. 

The next four weeks are highlighted by New York dusks and Bucky’s ever-changing nail polish. The two of you fit into an easy routine during sunsets and light breezes steadily severing each other’s obsidian walls. A majority of your interactions are solely between yourselves or knowing stares in the presence of others; they lack the verbal confirmation you’re accustomed to, though you don’t need it to know what he’s thinking.

It is how you discover yourself replicating the steps he took a couple of minutes ago that lead out of the building. You’re wearing a thin tank top and pale leggings after an afternoon of light combat and the chilled air is a welcome aspect for your hot palms. Bucky’s initial inquiry when he watches you under an array of coloured leaves points to your outfit.

"You’re gonna get cold, doll," He expresses, attempting to withhold a small smile. "It’s windy out tonight."

You pocket your hands as you settle against the trunk of the oak tree and roll your warm eyes to suppress a mirrored grin. "I live in the Underworld; it does not get colder than that."

Bucky purses his mouth at your answer and tugs his leather jacket closer. His knees are brought to his chest, sitting half a meter away from you. 

His playful eyes turn serious once you meet them, saying, "You don’t talk a lot about that place."

The brown-haired boy bites his tongue, but you know he wants to add how you’re due for a return soon. You’re glad he doesn’t.

"There isn’t much to talk about."

Again, he frowns and tilts his head in the other direction. You wordlessly plead for him to drop the subject and, thank the Allfather, he does. 

"Alright," Bucky pronounces. "How was your day?"

"It was fine. Wanda and Natasha showed me your training facility today and Thor joined, as well."

A boyish grin tugs at the end of his mouth and his hauntingly blue eyes suspend you in place. A relieved breath enters your lungs once the glimmer in his sight fades the slightest bit. 

"I’m guessing you sparred with him?"

You scoff. "And then some. He’s lucky I’m out of line for the throne."

He laughs an airy chuckle and, just this once, you allow the sickly sweet smile to force itself onto your face. The lovely jingle beats any attempt the elves in Alfheim make in regards to their musical numbers. It’s a dangerous thought that Freyr will surely reprimand you for, yet you can’t seem to care.

Bucky’s eyes reopen as a surge of zircon fire and he tucks a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket. You take advantage of the passing moment to swiftly tug the peeling wood in between yourselves and behind your back. The action takes a second or two, and the soldier is already looking at you. He holds compact bottles with various coloured liquid inside.

"Are those elixirs?" You ask perplexedly. Perhaps Midgard is more closely connected to the other realms than you thought.

" _No_ ," Bucky laughs, juggling the flasks in one hand. "It’s nail polish—" He clarifies when your eyebrows raise. "—the stuff I put on my nails."

Your mouth opens into a noiseless _'oh'_. He spreads his fingers wide and flaunts the multi-coloured polish on each of his fingers. 

"It’s a hobby of mine when I get… stressed," He continues cautiously and visibly swallows. "I thought maybe you’d want to try because I can tell you’ve been homesick."

Rather than trying to comment, you nod. 

Bucky’s smile grows devilishly. "Good, but what colour?"

He lays the tints on the grey grass in front of you both. From left to right, there is an assortment of dark to blindingly vivid paints, even a grey bottle that says _'Crackle Nail Polish'._ You choose that one.

"I want to try this one," You point. "It looks different."

The boy with the metal arm clicks his tongue. "Ah, good choice. I used to wear that one a lot."

He gently takes your left hand and places it onto his knee, your heart a lump at the base of your hoarse throat. Bucky expertly untwists the bottle at record speed and uses his thumb to wipe at any dirt that sits on your nails. After an eternity, he takes the brush to paint the cool substance with heedful movements. 

"What changed?"

The question makes him pause while he finishes your thumb and he holds eye contact with you. 

"I stopped a couple of weeks ago," He shrugs, returning to your nails that seem to contain much more interest. "So, I guess since you came 'round."

You bark a sarcastic laugh to conceal the blush up your face, receiving a scold from Bucky for moving. 

"That’s ironic, considering I’m not one for colour."

Death, you mean.

"What about that cat sweater you wore your first day here?" He teases, blowing on your pointer finger. "Made quite an imprint on my mind."

You stutter momentarily and strive to find a witty comeback. 

"Thor gave it to me. If I had the choice, no one would have seen me wear something like that _ever,"_ You defend with a downward tug of your lips. "I don’t like how you remember that."

He beams and dips the brush back into the pot, prompting you to wave the hand around for a second. It returns to his knee while he continues tinting the rest of your fingers a mix of black and grey. For the rest of the period, you watch him under a starlit night and admire the precision of his hand.

In truth, Bucky is the sun and you’re the shadows that scurry away in a feeble endeavour to avoid the inevitable. Every graze of his finger against yours burns the thin layer of ice on your skin, and it _stings_ like the receiving end of Thor’s thunder. This fictitious contract of yours has unfairly bounded the pair of you to a garden of white poppies and oak trees, beginning to decay without cause to stop. 

It’s unjust, so incredibly atrocious. 

Still, you offer him your right hand when he asks for it because you’ve never backed away from something you have desired. It’s in your bloodline.

"Thank you," You utter and shift your nails to reflect the light from the stars above.

"Careful — it still needs to dry."

You hum, absorbing the image in front of you. A mortal, despite Bucky’s claim of a 'super-serum', bathed in faint light next to the living embodiment of death. It doesn’t matter how slow he ages; in every tale of the story, you will outlive him and witness his ascent to Valhalla from afar. There isn’t a doubt in your mind that he’ll join your father and other soldiers when the last chapter of his life comes to a close.

Alas, no one tells you about the doubt and depreciation that chases immortality, far past the fading glimpses of an afterlife until it’s too late. 

Bucky clears his throat audibly. You mimic his previous actions, tilting your head to the side. 

"'M leaving in a couple of days for an assignment."

"An assignment?" You ask and he’s working on your ring finger.

"Yeah. Somewhere in Asia, I think."

You’re still puzzled. "Are you purposely using terms I don’t understand to avoid telling me where you’re going?"

"You’re too smart for me," He grins again, albeit less bright and further distressed. "But the point is, I won’t be at the compound in three days."

"Okay…" You drawl. "What’s the assignment?"

"Some murderers or somethin’. I wasn’t listening to Steve if I’m honest," The sergeant describes.

A tension you were unaware of uncoils and you bite your lip at the cool air on your fingers. "Okay."

He laughs at that. " _Okay?_ They’ve killed people. _"_

"I mean, I celebrate Yule with people like them," You elaborate without a second thought. "I _am_ one of those people."

Bucky stops and drops your hand back into your lap. A strike of fear crawls up your spine before he squeezes them both. 

"Me too," He mutters through distant eyes. It’s as if he’s speaking to himself. "I remember them all."

The following dusks are replicas of each previous night, peppered with personal anecdotes that barrel into another conversation. Without fail, both of you end up cloudy eyed with lethargic smiles as you sneak back into the compound. Each time nears closer to sunrise, despite the need for rest that buds.

Then, the night before his departure, he’s tucking your bare toes under his clothed thigh. "You’re going to get _cold_ , doll."

Automatically, you open your mouth to retort but the way Bucky’s sleepy, pleading eyes pierce yours halt your protest.

"Fine."

You’re braiding another ring of blank poppies into an intricate spin around each other. It’s better than your last due to the sole reason that you intend to gift it to the blue-eyed Avenger in front of you. Bucky has been oddly quiet, handing you a flower individually and gingerly watching you craft. 

He hands you another one and you don’t bother removing your gaze from the ornament. 

"Here."

The floret is pigmented with crimson and has an abundance of petals that burst together. You don’t notice until it’s too far intertwined with the other stems.

"What is this?" You seek. 

"A red carnation," He timidly smiles at your stare, urging him to proceed. "'Thought it’d look nice with your other flowers."

You tip your chin to the side, nodding lazily. "I agree."

He leaves it at that while you finish the crown with two more carnations. It’s pretty. 

A wavering hand wraps itself around the product, and you’re halfway to sliding it across his lap when he reaches into the pocket of his jacket. It’s another bottle of nail polish, though the coloured dye is absent in the liquid. Bucky places it in your open hand.

You quirk your brow and grasp at the warm polish from being pressed against his body. 

"I forgot to coat your nails with a protective coat," He discloses. "So… here."

"Thank you, Bucky."

For a minute, you forget about the flowers in your possession from putting the polish against the dim light in the sky. The world stills and you’re admiring the reflections and refractions through the bottle.

"This is for you, as well," You say as you push the accessory to Bucky. He twirls it between his calloused fingers, a lovely expression on his face. "Would you help me put this—" The clear coat. "—on?"

He smiles, muttering a hushed agreement and taking your hand into his. Bucky takes his time with each finger, blowing excessively long as you’ll permit him to. For both of you, it’s a series of _'please don’t forget me’_ s and light brushes of skin. 

It’s the quietness of the night and obscure promises of the near future. 

"Wait for me?" The soldier asks, and you know it’s the only thing he’ll ask from you. 

❁ - ❁ - ❁

There’s a limited crowd of people settled in the hanger, curled around a steel machine with wings on each side. It’s a _'quinjet',_ you’re told.

"We should leave now," Steve announces. "We have to be there early the next morning."

A choir of mumbled agreements and farewells flood the bay. You remain silent, standing behind Thor’s shoulder. Bucky finds your eyes past the multiple people that block you; his clouded eyes brighten promptly. 

Eventually, he accompanies Steve and the rest of their squad into the jet and you’re left with half of the remaining Avengers. Tony’s the first to exit and return to his lab with Bruce while you and Thor remain for a moment until Wanda and Vision leave. 

"What are we still doing here?" You pose, spinning to see the narrow ceilings and rows of quinjets at the side. A sudden thought invades your mind. "Are you going to teach me how to fly one of these?"

He snorts. "No — I actually wanted to talk to you about something else."

"Go on, then."

"I’ve noticed you spend a lot of time in the garden," The God of Thunder starts, looking pointedly at you. You furrow your brows for him to continue. "At night—"

The blood in your veins moves quickly and you have to convince yourself you haven’t done wrong. "Alright. And?"

"—with the metal man."

You’re tucking your shaken hands into the back pockets of your jeans and glare at the Prince’s ponytail to avoid eye contact. The temperature has dropped several degrees and he tucks his shirt closer to his chest. It has been a century since someone has accused you of, frankly, anything. 

"His name is Bucky," You bite, unable to stop your defensive nature from exposing yourself. "Where are you going with this, brother?"

"You’re a God. I’m simply telling to be _careful_ , little sister," He mocks. 

You’re rolling your eyes and countering his comment in a flash. "Like how you did with, pardon me, Jane if I recall correctly?

"That’s not fair," Thor bites and he’s about to hurtle an insult in your direction but pauses. "Wait. How do you even know about her?"

"She’s a proclaimed expert on Asgard and meddles in worlds where she doesn’t belong. How would I not know her?" Your brother stares at you blankly. "Fine. Loki."

This time, he doesn’t refrain from a steely glare and a hand in his hair, threatening to tug his hair loose. "Of course."

He seems to ponder for a minute and you seek the opportunity to escape the conversation. And, it is successful for a brief period. Though, predictably, Thor interrupts you moreover with a call of your name.

"Just… heed my warning, will you?"

You turn on your heel and the irritating blonde you have prepared for is swiftly replaced by one of genuine concern. The scenario before you reminds you of the day Odin had tasked you with rulership of Niflheim; you were young then, as were Thor and Loki, arrogant and ambitious to prove your worth. It didn’t strike you that the terms of accepting the Allfather’s proposal would force you into isolation in an icy terrain with the ability to escape once every four seasons. 

Your demeanour softens along with your tone. "Very well."

With that, you exit and brush your palm against the winding walls, travelling towards the kitchen. A muted melody echoes through the hallways and you follow the noise to be greeted by your companion Wanda. She’s wiping a piece of glassware down with a white cloth and it reminds you of the potions you would watch Frigga make. 

It’s unsettling, to say the least.

Although, in this actuality, Wanda turns to you with an easy smile. 

"Hi," You return, leaning on the counter adjacent to where she stands. "I have a question for you."

The witch places the cup in the cabinet beside a row of similar objects before turning to face you. "Go ahead."

"How did you know that you wanted to be with Vision?"

"Oh," Wanda blurts, her brows close the edge of her hairline. "Where did this come from?"

"My father’s trying to convince me to wed someone back home; they’re powerful in their own right, though I’m not sure if I should pursue it," You lie; it’s not a complete fib, but Odin has not brought the topic up in half a millennium. 

Her suspicion alters into an expression of pity. You don’t know which is worse — the truth or her pity.

"I’m sorry," She frowns, a hand of hers touching your shoulder. "I wish I could help."

"Well, perhaps you could tell me about your relationship with Vision?" You suggest lightly, retracing the previous topic back into the discussion.

Belatedly, Wanda alludes to the beginning of how the pair had met. She has a reminiscent smile and dazed eyes as she speaks, though you withhold from urging her to proceed quicker. 

"—From there on, I just knew. That was it."

Your sight narrows and you’re nodding with a false sense of understanding. 

"It was that easy?" You pester, frustration budding at the absence of useful information. 

She chuckles and answers, "Yeah, I guess. It’s different for everyone and you can’t expect my experiences to be yours, too."

You run your tongue over your teeth and tug at the bottom of your shirt, humming in acknowledgment. 

"Hey, the best advice I can give you is to trust your gut. It’s the most useful tool you have," Wanda adds and pats your forearm before retiring to her bedroom. 

A string of phrases that belong in Helheim is released from your mouth and you allow your head to hit the cabinet door. The low sun through the glass beams heavily onto your skin, a pleasant heat until the rays pierce your skin too many times. A shake of your head later, you escape outside to the area that has mended into a solace for your empty soul.

Truly, the contrast between the garden when you first arrived and it’s current state is frightening. You’ve ignored the lack of budding plants and excessive amounts of rotten roots in favour of the boy you regularly share the space with. 

It’s why Frigga used to warn you to maintain a distance from her flowers. 

It’s also why a strange sprout of guilt overwhelms your lower stomach when you see the gardener in their rubber boots wheeling a heap of dead grass. He walks past you, sharing the same smile you’re accustomed to in the evening. 

Then, as you reach your destination, do you notice it; for once, a level of moral culpability fastens itself at your throat. The oak tree is a shell of what it used to be — peeling wood and grey spots taint the trunk alongside a shallow number of leaves that pile on the ground. 

You’re crouching on dry soil as the sun disappears completely. There aren’t enough poppies for you to braid anymore. 

There’s a frail tap on your shoulder.

"Excuse me, but would you happen to notice something different in the plants recently?" He asks, an innocent grin on his lips. "You’re here so often I figured you might know what’s causing them to die."

You freeze. 

"Miss?"

Standing tall, you spin to look at him with a hard face. "I’m afraid not."

You’re already walking away when his hand grabs your bicep, causing you to whip toward him. Though, the senior you’re expecting morphs fluidly into a towering form with sleek hair and pointed shoulders. 

Loki.

"What— what is _wrong_ with you?" You demand and shove him back. An ugly scowl is aimed at the God of Mischief. 

He sports a cheeky smirk and a brash glint in his eyes, even with both of his hands raised. Loki’s wearing dark slates of leather armour and detailed fabrics that engrave flecks of gold. 

"Did you miss me?"

Silence. 

"You’re a prick."

The prince snickers and lowers his hands. He gestures to the bench to your left and stretches his arms around the backrest. You join him reluctantly.

"How has your trip been?" Loki asks, a genuine curiosity in his tone. It’s always been different between the two of you as a result of the common link you share — the lack of a parent or two. 

"Alright. I’ve learned a lot about Midgardians and their home."

He quirks a brow. "That’s all you’re going to say? Really?"

You purse your lips, unamused. "Yes."

At this angle, the moonlight sharpens his taut face and the look of displeasure is enhanced. Despite his protests, he really is Odin’s son.

"You know that I’ve been here since you arrived, right?" He accuses and you shift uncomfortably. "I see you come out here every night with that boy."

"Wait. You have watched me for over a month?" You counter, an overwhelming surge of anger and fright threading your skin. " _God_ , Loki."

He rolls his eyes at your allegation and fixes the collar of his shirt. "No, I don’t care about you that much. But you just confirmed it."

"I wish you would have stayed in the dungeons," You jest untruthfully. 

"Sure you do."

There’s a long pause as a heavy cloud of annoyance weighs across the garden and you’re both pursing your lips, waiting for one of you to speak again. It’s a wordless, childish affair that refuses to dissipate, ever since the two of you learned to babble incoherent phrases and toss a spear. 

You break first, despite the bitter taste in your mouth.

"What are you doing here, Loki?" You sigh, defeated. "How did you know I was here?"

His smug manner is amplified and he cooly rolls a chain of words off his tongue. "How could I not know that the Queen of the dead was visiting lowly earth?"

"Answer the question."

"Well," The Prince starts, "I overheard back home and I figured it would be a decent time to see you. It’s been a long time."

You nod, eyes toward the ground under Loki’s boots. "It has."

He clears his throat and forces you to lock sights with him. "Thor’s right. About that boy."

"Loki," A begging noise falling from your bitten lips, " _please_."

"No. We know what happened to Thor and that Midgardian girl, but the difference is you’re not banished from Asgard or Hel — you _rule_ it. You’re not even supposed to leave that place and I’ve seen enough to know—"

An abrupt hand is thrown up and you command him to stop. "What?"

Then, does the God realize his mistake. 

You don’t allow him to speak and you’re already separating yourself onto the balls of your feet. The night feels as though it was frozen over.

"Father had outright _said_ I was allowed to leave whenever I pleased now; that I could visit the other realms," There’s a clock ticking while you pronounce the brainstorm in your head. "Yet, it’s never been about me, has it?"

Loki attempts to stop you with a call of your name — you’re both too temperamental for this discussion.

Regardless, you continue in a frenzy. "Thor doesn’t even know, does he? That you’re working with father to make a useless strive at the throne? Well, forgive me, but you’re _never_ going to get it."

"Shut up," He snaps, standing in a pile of dead grass. "You don’t know anything."

"Odin simply needed an excuse to get me out of Niflheim because…" You trail, brushing damp hair from your face. "…because… _Ragnarök_."

Presently, the corners of the shadows and rough patches in the sky are smooth; that muddled, seething voice in your mind is a child’s lullaby. Loki’s tiny falter in his face is all the confirmation you require.

"You and Odin," You choke, "don’t trust me enough to avoid the prophecy I’ve recited for the last thousand years. How could you invade my home like that?"

He doesn’t look as though he has the slightest ounce of remorse. "Of course, not. You’re supposed to bring an army of the dead to Vígríðr and facilitate the end of the world. Why would anyone?"

"Lead by _you_ ," You scream. "Stop acting like you agreed to watch over me for the interest of the world. The sole thing you care about is the crown that rightfully belongs to Thor."

It’s a low-blow, you know it. He’s dreamt of it since he was a child and shunned under Thor’s penumbra while he stood in the sunlight. And, despite it all, you say it for the second time in a number of minutes.

"Fine. You’re right," He retorts and the truth is a dagger to the back. "Are you truly this stupid to think father would _let_ you leave after exiling you to that hovel? What, you get to see the sun once every spring and suddenly it’s freedom? I promise you, this is the last time you’ll see a sliver of light again."

You roll his cruel words off your back.

"You know, sometimes I pity you for the amount of moping you do around Thor and it’s a shock to me why you’re clueless to why you’re so far behind in the race. Honestly, you were never considered due to the lone reason that you’re adopted. Blood is thicker than water, Loki."

"In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not the only outsider here," The Asgardian snarls and you hold a bitter laugh. "Go to Hel."

"Where do you think the phrase comes from, brother?"

❁ - ❁ - ❁

It’s sickly warm tonight, the dirt clinging between your toes and a sheen of perspiration on your skin. The shirt you’re wearing sticks to your collarbone and the small dips in your stomach. The heat is relentless, stripping the cool salve from the wall of the compound in spite of your constant movement. 

You’re exhausted from nothing it seems, other than virulent family quarrels and existential guilt that makes you ill.

Though, the nausea in your gut spurs into emptiness when a puff of wintry air exits the glass doors, followed by slow footsteps and knotted hair. He’s looking at you, a pouted smile and you see the suspense fade into deep blue to be succeeded by relief. You imagine you’re no different. 

At that instant, Bucky’s pushing the door shut with his back and you’re stepping into his space with soft wrinkles at your eyes, a weak tug of your lips. His wrist is a solid object between your fingers when you squeeze them and the beat of a thudding chant rests in your throat. 

"Hello," You whisper, blinking rapidly under Bucky’s brilliance. 

He returns the greeting with a boyish grin of his own and the other hand not trapped in your fingers interlaces your shaky hand into a ball of fire and ice. Selfishly, you take a moment to allow your sight to wash over his face, ensuring that faded scars remain small and the crinkles on his forehead are safe from coloured bruises. 

Suddenly, you’re a mere inch or two away from the tips of your noses brushing together, and you flush at the childish thought in the back of your mind when, you _swear_ to Odin, his eyes flicker to your mouth. 

You jump away at the loud click of the automatic lights inside turning black. 

He’s brushing at the baby hairs at the back of his neck and you’re wiping the moisture from your palms on the rough texture of your jeans.

"Sorry," The soldier apologizes, following your lead into the garden when you tilt your head to the flower beds. 

A mental fight between your embarrassment and frustration causes you to shake your head and ignore the heavy presence that is quick on your heels. You take a seat with Bucky pressing his knee to your left thigh and the starlight seeps through tree branches to illuminate parts of your bodies, clinging at dark fabric. 

You turn to gaze at him with an odd, affectionate glance. You suppose it’s a result of the recent events over the last week and your attempt to stay anchored to the earth. 

"How was your trip?"

He talks in tangents, rapidly smoothing over crimson coloured bodies and the beginning sequences of their descent to Niflheim. In segments, Bucky stops picking the grass off the ground to ensure you’re not flinching at the cruel realities he describes because, in truth, they’re the same tales he recalls while he forces a pillow in his mouth to stop the horrific feelings of culpability from killing him when he’s alone. 

"'M’sorry, doll," He sighs, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "Is it okay if I stop here?"

"Yes," You smile at the way he slides further down the bark of the tree. "Thank you for sharing with me."

Bucky hums and folds his arms together, murmuring, "What were you up to?"

"Nothing really happened while you were gone," You lie with practice, shifting to another topic. "How familiar are you with Norse paganism?"

"Norse what?"

A breathless chuckle makes its way past your lips as Bucky’s stare lingers at the bottom half of your face, drowsily returning to your eyes. 

"How much do you know about me, or Thor? Or, Asgard?" You rectify. "Before we met."

"Only the parts where I’ve listened to Thor mention it," He shrugs and frowns a second after; a fold between his brows and crevice on his chin appears. "He never talked about you though."

You click your tongue to the roof of your mouth, nodding. "Well, do you want to know more?"

"About you?" He snorts, his eyes a lightning bolt of azure gems, chasing all signs of fatigue away. "Yes." 

All at once, three simple words have you reeling at the abrupt display of interest and it’s like smelling the air before a storm strikes or hearing a bell ring in preparation of a battle. It’s a wonder how you had not anticipated this sooner. 

Prior, you would have named the stir in your chest cavity desperation, the same that you’ve ridiculed the dead for; but it’s the same desperation you see in Wanda, Vision and blurs of families in Central Park. 

And, for the moment, you may be alright with that, because it’s all you’ll have. 

You stumble over your first few sentences, thankful for the shade to cover the rush of blood in your skin. In the beginning, it’s a difficult feat to explain the realms and the important deities that have lead you to the present. However, Bucky is a novel student regardless of his minimal knowledge and you find yourself with your legs over his lap. 

They’re tales you’ve learned since you were a babe or have been fortunate, or unfortunate, to experience them personally; you’re speaking with an intensity that prompts Bucky to smirk at your flying hands and the dark glitter in your irises when you elaborate on your first successful venture at necromancy. 

If either of you knew how to utilize a smartphone fairly well, you would have brought it with you and pressed the button on the side to reveal that it was far into the bewitching hour. Granted, it wouldn’t have altered the manner that you’re staring at him like he’s the reincarnation of the moon, or the shortness in your breath when he catches your hands to put his lips to the back of them. 

"What are you doing?" You breathe, the muscles in your arms relaxing with ease. 

He smiles and squeezes your palms, a rosy blush on the apples of his cheeks. "Nothin’."

The side of your head hits the bark with a gentle thump and Bucky mimics the clumsy gesture. He’s closer to the attractive lull of sleep than he’ll admit, yet he fights his lidded eyes to stay open, just a bit longer. 

The action freezes the blood in your veins for a passing second and, perhaps, it’s the reason why you’re leaning into each other like an electrostatic force. Your mouth opens to pose the rising question in your mouth, a sour taste of reality. However, the boy with a hazy smirk acts first.

Bucky’s nose nudges against yours to tug your hands, bringing you into a hesitant press of your lips. His bottom lip glides over yours and he waits for you to push him off until you don’t. You, in spite of your lack of experience, match his agonizingly slow pace and one of his hands separate to cup your jaw with a caution that urges you to push against him harder. 

And, it’s as though you’re a child again, sight glazed over with awe when you see the clouds part after a storm or the sound of the horn after a hard-fought victory in combat. 

Presently, it’s the escape from prophecies of a world consumed by flames and distressing family members. It’s you and Bucky, sat under a tree in the dead of night and gasps in between desperate kisses. 

You’re content if this is all you’ll ever receive throughout a lifetime of noir and death, because your hands are tangled in his hair as he slips his tongue in your mouth. You’re comfortable with swollen lips and being tucked under Bucky’s jacket to slip into temporary unconsciousness.

The routine thud of his spirit rested in a muscle in the middle of his chest is the harmony that lures you to sleep and wakes you several hours later.

"Hi."

You crane your head to stretch out the kink in your neck and to blink pleasantly at the soldier above you. 

"Hello," You return in a hoarse whisper.

There are titters of flagrant birds amid the trees and you rest your head to his chest. Bucky picks at the poppy in your hair, wilted at the ends and an alarmingly grey stem that threatens to fall apart. He tosses it behind you.

He smiles, uttering, "You look good like this. In the sun."

You hum, ignoring the slight stings in your skin under excessive amounts of radiation. It’s pain and still, if rubbing a serum over aches and bruises means being with Bucky, you’d do it. Over, and over again.

Then and there, do you acknowledge the caution from your brothers. 

Although, they, alongside the Allfather, will simply have to forgive you because Bucky is tilting your chin and pressing into you once more. 

❁ - ❁ - ❁

Thor, your apparent tour guide, has a habit of disappearing with the other Avengers in periods and abandoning you to amuse yourself in a foreign realm. You don’t bother asking where the God of Thunder may be anymore, so you capitalize on it. You ask Bucky to take you to his favourite places, ignoring the raised brows from Natasha and Steve when you offer Bucky a cup of coffee with two spoons of hot cocoa for the fourth time this week.

He merely smiles and takes the mug with careful hands. "'Course, darling."

Thereafter, you slip away from their intrusive questions to leave the sergeant with the informal interrogation in the kitchen. The blur of wooden doors goes by and you’re turning the corner to your chambers when you’re met with a weary old man wearing a pair of rubber boots and a straw hat. 

Loki.

Your shoulder pushes past his and Loki’s hands attempts to grasp at your wrist. You retract as if you’ve been burnt by Sól herself. 

"Do not touch me," You snap, shoving your door open and quickly closing it afterwards. A defeated exhale forces itself out of your mouth and you find yourself wishing for a scrap of wisdom that a severed head could provide. Mímir. A melancholy smile pulls at the edges of your lips at the wise counsellor, stuck between your father’s fingers. It’s one of the many things you detest about him.

A patterned frock sits on your body while you wait at the edge of the bed, watching the God of Mischief through a thin glass sew into the soil. He makes eye contact with you, challenging your composure.

Bastard.

Punctually, a series of knocks echoes around the room and you’re standing to greet Bucky. He’s wearing his signature leather around his arms and a pretty smile on his face. 

As opposed to the _'hi'_ you’re accustomed to being welcomed with, he brushes a piece of hair from your face to press his mouth to your right cheek instead. 

In response, you don a _stupid_ , besotted smile.

For the rest of the day, Bucky fabricates a succession of endearing excuses to attach his lips to yours or wrap a hovering hand around your waist. Worst of all, you reciprocate with eagerness and watch him with a fond gape while he maneuvers around the mobs of civilians. 

Particularly, when he seeks a seat for you on the subway and Bucky disregards the person next to you exiting on the third stop, in preference of offering it to the woman with silver hair under a flowered bucket hat. He sends a cheeky nod in your direction, grasping at the bar above him and you shake your head.

_"Foolish,"_ You mouth.

You depart when several groups of people leave and the cart is bustling with Midgardians shoving each other onto a station you’ve never been to before. Bucky’s steady grip, threaded through your fingers, is the only resemblance you have to a grounding technique or way of travel. 

The signs near the stairwell say ' _Coney Island-Stillwell Av. Station',_ followed by the letters _D, F, N_ and _Q_. You wonder what they mean when you’re ushered along with the crowd and outside into a crosswalk. Really, it’s still a shock to you to witness the number of civilians who run across the street with cars going by without care; more so when Bucky does the same.

" _James,"_ You scold, your sandals clicking against the pavement at the same time as his boots.

You’re a handful of minutes away from chucking a light-hearted insult at his dopey smile prior to the blazing glares of carnival lights and fluorescent bulbs. Children are crawling onto the railings of the boardwalk, shrieking at figures with animated expressions. 

Enticingly dangerous contraptions tower over the other buildings and tents, surrounded by small food stalls with overpriced candy. The beach below is no better, scattered with freezer carts and alcoholic beverages. 

"Welcome to Coney Island," The soldier announces under a grey ball cap. There are flecks of neon glitter in his pale irises and you struggle to avert your stare until he looks tugs you to join a curved line of people.

"What are we doing here?"

He shrugs. "Have you ever had cotton candy?"

On queue, a sticky-fingered toddler with puffy cheeks and pink cotton in her hands rolls by in her stroller, gaping her mouth with slick hands at the pair of you. 

"No," You say, "I’ve never had the pleasure."

Another family passes by with an armful of coloured clouds.

"I think you’ll like it."

"Well, I trust your judgement," You smile, squeezing the hand folded in yours.

And, after your feet are sore and the sun pinches your skin, you’re standing in front of the vendor with a striped shirt and matching visor. They greet you, a forced grin on their face.

"Just one, please," Bucky requests, fishing for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.

You watch him exchange a bill for the candy stuffed in a paper cone and your companion hands it to you to tip the vendor whose day seems to brighten a bit more. Then, he guides you with a hand to your back and down the boardwalk.

"Try some," He looks at you to the treat in your hands.

The cotton candy clings to your fingers, though melting immediately in the confines of your mouth; it’s revoltingly sweet and sticks to the ridges of your teeth, yet you can’t be bothered with stopping yourself from picking more. 

You swallow. "It tastes as if I’m eating pure sugar."

"That’s the best part of it, doll," Bucky retorts, shoving a handful of the pink fluff between rosy lips. He stops suddenly, licking his lips and nods to the Ferris wheel a few meters ahead. "Wanna ride it?"

"Is it safe?"

Bucky shrugs and fits his sugared fingers in his tinted mouth, causing you to zone in on the heinous action. "Probably not."

Somehow, amidst his crimson lips and pleading eyes, your unmovable nature folds to fit his wishes and you’re sitting atop a filthy cart with Bucky at your side, tilting your head in his direction. Likewise, it’s how you’re stretched on a brown couch alongside a tired soldier in his tattered sleep shirt, reading a novel in Old Norse before one of you falls asleep first. Or, during the next fortnight when a thick rope has sewn itself into your hearts and refuses to separate either of you for the rest of the summer. 

It’s also how, near the end of the fading season, you’re tucked under a weighted duvet that’s a cheap comparison to the quilts back home. However, the boy with an ocean in his eyes and a smile that could melt a hundred winters in Helheim is the reason for the tilted scale when comparing your bed to here, in Bucky’s vicinity.

There’s soft music coming from his record player on his bedside table that he’s timing his heated kisses up your inner thigh with. 

" _Bucky."_

A ferocious heat that would overwhelm Muspelheim is crawling over the indents of your body and into the smooth skin on your stomach. It grows exponentially when his tongue glides closer to your centre, and you blindly grasp his hair to force a moan from him.

An airy pronunciation of your name from Bucky’s mouth is surely the song the Valkyries sing at the gates of Valhalla and, instantly, the heat no longer burns your skin but becomes an addictive touch.

"Darlin’," Your thighs tense and he brushes his palms up and down your legs, "can I keep going?"

"Yes," And Bucky’s already looping his fingers through the waistband of your underwear, "please."

He’s quick with his movements as if he’s as desperate for it as you are; a swift bite indents your flesh, causing you to snap your eyes at Bucky.

"Sorry." 

He’s hiding a grin behind your skin and wetting the mark with his tongue. 

His fervent stare returns to your exposed skin and you blush beneath his calloused hands. The image of him is ungodly, dampening his lips with shaded eyes and darker thoughts. 

One of his hands, the flesh one, fastens itself with yours and presses a comforting kiss to the back of it. Then, he’s licking a wide stripe up your cunt, arousing a vulgar sound from your chest. He persists in between gasps of his own, round indents from his metal hand in your muscles. 

Each greedy utterance of Bucky’s name encourages him to continue before pushing your knees further apart and indulging in your wet warmth with the curve of his tongue and smack of his lips. You’re pushing your hips upwards, meeting him with delirious motions and lewd pants.

"Bucky," Your thighs strain while you keen like you’ll die without his touch; he settles onto his elbows, pulling away to send you a sensuous glare and you’re whining instantly.

He’s nudging his pointed nose to the bone in your hip and, "What d’you need, hmm?"

Without his presence at your core, you jerk to create pressure from the squeezing of your legs but he fights with you to allow cool air in. You huff. " _You._ "

"What else, doll?"

There’s a slick liquid slipping down your folds and, even in a frenzy, you refuse to beg as though you’re not an immortal being with royal blood. Then, it is a mystery why you hear yourself cry, "Please, Bucky, please."

He’s wearing a shameless smirk, returning to where you’re needy and agitated. The overbearing coil unwinds slightly at the relief from his mouth, added by his two digits which twist inside you. Bucky relieves his theatrics and licks into you carnally with his fingers thrusting at a rapid pace. 

You curse as you enter a state of temporary ecstasy and a moan of your name is heard in the background. The pillow underneath your head squishes when you lean into it, choking for air. 

Bucky has his own line of profanities that make your eyes narrow, yet the weight on your bare thigh through the cotton he wears is enough for your mouth to stay sealed. He’s shifted up to hover over you and nestle his tongue between your lips, prompting you to taste yourself on his breath.

"Do you…" He swallows thickly, watching the dark ice in your irises expand. You’re nervous, if the way you’re averting your gaze to the ceiling and blinking rapidly doesn’t show it. It has been more than several thousand springs since the last time you were with anyone and seeds of doubt are sprouting in the form of poppies. 

Although, when you look at the boy above you it is different. From the pure attentiveness and methods his calloused fingers trace your face in waved circles, you know that it’s more than a desire for pleasure. 

The dance you share is unpracticed, awkward and desperate. It’s the rough sliding of bare skin under a thick, grey material and the heat beneath the makeshift tent squeezes the air from your lungs; though, you are unwilling to stop Bucky’s slow thrusts and rapacious digs at your waist.

Somewhere, over the white-tipped mountains in Jötunheim, you see him run an aggressive hand through his knotty hair. Leaning down, he catches the top of your lip with his teeth, grumbling a pretty rasp. 

His hips drive into your heat harshly, eliciting a cry from you and, all of a sudden, you’re laughing.

"What?" Another deep shove that cuts you off into a whine. Bucky’s trying his best to not smile, knotting his brows to focus on the way he’s _inside_ you. Hot, thick and twitching. 

You free your hand from the sheets and slip a fuchsia elastic from your left wrist and reach around his head to gather his damp hair into a bun. His head settles into the crook of your neck, his hips stalling momentarily to grind at your core. 

"There."

Bucky’s beaming now, hastily thrusting into you with a goal he is insistent on reaching. He swallows your moan, whispering, "I gotta get me one of those."

Pairs of teeth clash, a nip of pain to compliment the stripes of bliss as a result of the place a bit south, where you’re connected. He slides his flesh hand to circle your sensitive nub, the other cradling your head with the thumb brushing at your temple. In return, you bend your knees and he curses, pushing them to your chest.

"Fuck," You hear in the midst of a foggy reverie, crashing back onto Midgard after your high. The pressure between your legs disappears briefly until Bucky’s palming himself through your slick and releasing the tension in his lower stomach over your chest. 

The music continues its gentle melody underneath a collection of pants that echo in the room. Before you can tug him back to you, he’s leaning over and wiping your stomach with soft eyes and a worn t-shirt. A kiss is planted near your belly button. 

"Thank you," Your hand threading through the stray hairs from his bun stops to cup his jaw. 

"'Course."

❁ - ❁ - ❁

It’s funny, the tales you have heard about the abilities the jötunn posses because, in all your years, the blessing of foresight was never inflicted upon you. Although, when you jolt awake from wisps of white-petaled flowers, do the blinding beams of an azure flood your vision with specks of snow. 

Bucky stirs beside you.

You’re quick to find your clothes and sneak to the other side of the wooden door after memorizing the moonlight streaks in his eyelashes and the easy lift of Bucky’s chest. Up, down. Like the bile in your throat when your feet hit the wooden floor and distant memories of the future make your knees tremble in anticipation.

Thor’s there — in the living area, thumbing at a plastic, green leaf — like you knew he would be. You’ve been long overdue for this conversation, or any at all with weeks of evading his knowing stare and bottling your knowledge of Loki in a metal canteen. 

"I need to tell you something."

He peaks up at your crossed figure with an intensity that matches the flames you would see in Odin’s eyes. "I know."

You pad closer, perching on the arm of a leather sofa and blurt, "Loki’s here. On Midgard."

" _What?"_ Thor is blinking rapidly, attempting to force the searing lightning from his sight. A calloused hand of his rubs the side of his bearded face. " _When_ — How do you know?"

"I talked to him," Suddenly, the dark curtain in the sky is a magnet and you can’t tear away from it, "a bit ago."

"And you have decided, just now, to tell me this? He’s not even supposed to be—"

"I had a vision."

He’s tense, then. "Of what?"

"Fimbulwinter," You croak, shivering at the thought of the end of the world. Or, at least Asgard; the place you were raised beside your siblings under long springs and short winters. "I think… I think Baldr is dead."

You should be back home — Niflheim, Helheim. Preparing for the arrival of Frigga’s firstborn in the Underworld, the starting line for Ragnarök. You don’t even know how he passed, because he wasn’t supposed to, at least not yet.

The God before you curses and he knows what happens next. You do, too. 

Everyone does.

"When you said you needed to tell me something, I thought you meant your… relationship with Bucky," He laughs dryly. 

"Oh."

He looks down at you. You haven’t felt this small since you tripped over the shards of glass that your brothers shattered inside the Asgardian palace, crouched beside you as you bawled for the last time. 

"You should have told me about Loki," Thor scolds. "But I know why you didn’t. You were trying to protect him."

"He doesn’t need my protection, not that I could offer any."

It’s a lie, similar to the way you claimed the crimson paint on your palms were painless, glass pieces stuck in the cracks. 

"He’s our brother, in spite of the stupidity that rots in his brain."

You tilt your head downwards, searching in the garden for a pair of rubber boots. "Yes, he is."

There’s a haunting silence for the remainder of the few minutes you let yourselves rest. You’re unsure though, why you need it since your whole life has been resting and preparing for the end of the Gods. 

Thor turns to leave first, walking slowly and, "We leave for Asgard at a quarter to three, Midgard time."

The neon letters to your right say, ’ _02:23’_.

You make quick work, back to Bucky’s room and discover that he’s in the same position that you left him in. Leaning on the door, you’re mapping the pile of clothes that stop the bathroom door from closing and the array of nail polish that you can pick and choose from in his top left drawer. 

There’s a stuffed elephant on the bed somewhere, swathed in dishevelled sheets that Bucky won for you at the boardwalk, solely due to the way your gaze lingered for a second longer than usual. 

Gradually, he’s batting his lids open to be met by your voice and an ice-cold grip on his shoulder. He can’t help but flinch away; it’s natural, instinct maybe.

"I’m sorry," You’re retracting your hand and he’s snapping it back to his chest in an instant.

He shakes his head, a blurred wave of regret washing over him. "No, I—'

"The ice. I know."

"Yeah," Bucky nods, sitting up to look at you more clearly. He steals the air from your throat even half-awake. Even when you’re about to leave him. "What’s wrong, darlin’?"

"Thor and I are travelling back to Asgard," You start, continuing through the confusion written in blue. "We depart in fifteen minutes."

"Why—?"

"Give me a moment, please," You’re shaking, thumbing the wrinkle between his brow. "I need to be there, to be where I should have been. If it hasn’t already happened, a long, vigorous winter will span the next three summers before Ragnarök and I have to be in Hel to, at the very least, _attempt_ to stop it."

You and silence are intimate partners in crime; death is quiet and you feed off each other like a life source. However, when Bucky is quiet, resembling the man the day you met and the weeks after that, there isn’t much you would not forsake if it meant to hear his voice.

Then, when he’s gritting his teeth and nodding do you ultimately decide that you hate fate with every cold vein in your body. 

"Bucky," You whisper, removing your hand from his face, "I’m sorry. It’s my duty to see this through, even if it means the end of the world."

A beat passes.

"Okay."

And, you know he’s biting his tongue to stop from spilling but you’re silently pleading with him not to. 

Your Bucky, diligently loyal, righteously good and sincerely loved, is a faithful reminder to why you should fight for this. See a timeline where the Nine Realms stay intact and Yggdrasil does not splinter from a battle that will end the realms. Find a way that you crawl out of Hel and survive to return to him.

"Okay."

He sits on the edge of your bed, rubbing his eyes with the pointy end of his knuckles as you shove your belongings into a bag hurriedly. Bucky hasn’t spoken since his last word, yet the shallow look in his eyes is more than enough. 

"Will you tell Wanda, Steve and Natasha that I said goodbye?" You’re wringing the strap of the bag through your fingers and the tint on your nails is faded and chipped to the point where the colour is indescribable. 

The soldier in front of you has a wry smile, taking you in like it’s the last time he’ll see you, and, "'Haven’t even said goodbye to me yet."

The next second you’re crossing the distance, standing between his knees and tilting his chin to level your sights. It’s like looking in the eye of a storm, tasting the salt in the fog as the anticipation fosters. 

"You, James Buchanan Barnes, are the alms that have been gifted to me from Freya herself," You’re putting on your best smile, afraid to crumble before destiny’s set date. "There is no one in the Nine Realms that I would have rather met than you. Albeit, the scrolls may have forgotten to mention you, fate has lead me into your world with intent so crystalline it could free the oceans from contamination."

Bucky’s holding his breath, waiting for you to finish.

"I _will_ see you again, whether that be in the afterlife or four seasons from now. This is not farewell."

You’re not sure if he completely believes you, much less yourself. But he’s nodding and it’s enough. 

"I love you."

And, you swear to the Allfather, you hate him. 

You hate Bucky for his candour and ill-timed outbursts, yet you’re letting a whimper slip from your mouth and perhaps your friend death would be welcome at the moment. 

You hate yourself for being able to walk away due to the centuries of prophecies that have damned you before your birth. 

"Bucky," You breathe, resting your forehead to his.

"I do."

Curse all the stars and the moon because you know. 

_You know._

❁ - ❁ - ❁

The garden at the compound has weeds.

It has become overgrown with pestering organisms without the presence of the gardener in yellow boots and all Bucky can do is watch. He watches through the glass in the training room and sometimes on Sunday nights when movie night drags on. 

The white poppies in the flower beds have disappeared.

They haven’t really disappeared — more so, dead, wilted. The whole thing is symbolic and laughable if he truly reflects on it. Though, no one else has noticed because they’re not at the compound long enough or searching for the trail you have left behind.

The oak tree, the only one in the area that is already barren and peeling at the beginning of autumn, has a small birds nest.

The home of sticks and straws doesn’t even have eggs yet or parity to life but it’s a start. It’s an emergence of abrupt optimism that has Sam and Steve alarmed at his change in mood over a week after moping for two. 

He’s rubbing the tip of his nose from the subtle plummet in the temperature and proceeds to offer his cluttered palm to the tittering bird on the wooden bench. Honestly, it’s a morose sight for the Avengers to witness, even after several weeks.

You would see it, too, if you weren’t on the other side of the building.

Steve is the first to confront you as an intruder and potential threat, with the heavy slap of your boots and the shake of plated armour on your shoulders. 

His eyebrows shoot to the edge of his hairline, followed by a call of your name.

"Steve," You address, and he approaches you in disbelieving steps, "I do hope you have been well."

"I…" The blonde is shaking his head and parts his mouth to close it before deciding to speak at last. "Aren’t you supposed to be in Asgard?"

You retract the blades in your hands into the back indents of your armour with a satisfying clink of ingot on glass. "Yes. But I left something behind."

A silent ' _ah'_ leaves Steve’s mouth, his arms crossed and a knowing stare that rivals one of Tyr’s. "Someone, you mean?"

Your vision becomes angled when you tilt your head to the side, pondering your next words. Though, there isn’t a point to lying to the person who knows Bucky better than himself and the ties you have to him. 

Frankly, there isn’t the time either.

"Indeed."

He renders a kind smile, the sort that causes wrinkles near the eyes and a sympathetic gaze. "It’s good to see you again; we’re here if you or Thor need anything."

You extend your dominant arm to him and he reciprocates, clapping your forearm with his hand when you do the same. Your gazes hold, a thousand tales of respect and honour silently told.

"Captain," You nod, squeezing lightly through the plaid fabric on the area above his wrist.

"Your Majesty," He teases, well aware of the detest you hold for the title. Steve brushes a comforting thumb over your gauntlets. "Go on."

You have always admired the unrelenting focus Bucky has, to the point where the world around him vanishes if he isn’t searching for it. It’s a dangerous habit that he has grown into once he became accustomed to the safety of the compound and the people inside it. 

It’s also something you take advantage of, creeping behind him to step around a mess of wilted plants and overgrown weeds.

It is how you find yourself a meter away from his crouched figure.

The sound of your voice is an uneasy quiver. "Hi."

The limited scraps of bird food fall through the cracks of Bucky’s fingers and he’s whipping around like you threatened to kill a pup.

An anxious breath is kept at the back of your throat, stilled and threatening to pop. It might, below a sweltering glare that blisters a metallic blue; he hurtles your body into a firestorm and you stand there, in a warm autumn afternoon and layers of wolf fur, because you deserve it.

Still, Bucky steps inside your space like a winged creature to its nest to catch you in an embrace. You gasp, belatedly, wrapping your stiff arms around him to the best of your ability.

"Hello," He whispers, around the slick part of your hair.

The pair of you stay there for a moment, entangled in each other’s bodies. The sun’s needles pierce your exposed skin and you savour it because Bucky is tucked in your desperate grasp and you can hear his heartbeat so _clearly_.

"I love you. I was a coward and refused to say it before I left, despite the truth," You confess, pulling away the slightest to see a minute spark in delicate irises. It’s his turn to freeze his breathing. "I mean it — I love you, Bucky."

He struggles to find the words he had rehearsed if — when — he saw you again after _finally_ hearing the words he had been praying up and down to fall from your lips. So, he shows you because his brain is a mess like the garden you stand in. Pressing his lips to yours as if he’s shoving ancient poems down your esophagus to make you understand in areas that his voice cannot.

It’s a clash of teeth and the taste of rosy cotton candy prior to the pants for oxygen and fluttering of eyelashes. In more ones than one, it’s a summary of your tale in New York — of cool nights, crowded boardwalks, chipped nail polish and people with supernatural abilities under one roof. 

"I love you, too."

There’s no sound. Not for a while.

Not until Bucky feels you pull away and, "Let us help you. It doesn’t have to just be your fight."

You’re smiling like you sensed the sentences coming from his mouth before he blurted them. 

"I know. The future remains a mystery without you or everyone else to help guide the way," You’re tucking Bucky’s hair over his ears, holding his jaw. "But so will Midgard. All seven billion people on this planet need you more than an anxious pantheon in someplace that has far too many Gods than there should be."

"You could die," He counters, a deep frown as opposed to the odd grin on your face.

"I could. Though, I would find it quite peculiar for the Goddess of Death to pass if she’s already there."

Your soldier snorts at that, smoothing over the rigidness of your breastplate. "That’s true. You’d just be going back home."

"That’s correct," You confirm and match the fixed stare that shoots rays of light into yours. "There’s nothing to fret about."

He nods contemplatively and he’s trying to extend the time he has with you because he knows you need to leave soon; Thor and Loki aren’t very talented at hiding behind florets and wooden barrels. 

"'D’ya think you could be careful? Try an' make it through the _end of the world_ to see me again?"

You swallow, and if you could cry, you would. However, this is far from the worst thing you have seen, even if it feels like it.

"I’ll try. I can swear you that," Bucky’s taking a step back so you don’t have to and it’s the lack of warmth and return of ice that makes you nauseous. It has been too long of a summer for the season to end in your worn armour and tired soul, yet you continue as it is the only thing you know how to do. "I love you."

He offers a glum tug of his lips, mouthing, "I love you."

You pace backwards, boring the memory of a sweet man with a metal arm under an oak tree to remembrance before you turn on your heel. 

A poppy, pale and bleached, crunches underneath your steel toes.

Your brothers wait for you, like the death of the Gods a rainbow bridge away.

**Author's Note:**

> this was so long — imsosorry. ALSO if anyone cares or notices, there are some light/heavy (?) influences from God of War 4. so.


End file.
